Asking for It

Page 50

“Liar!” Kip looks triumphant. “You can’t bear it whenever people argue in department meetings; it’s like you want to slither under the table. You’re no pushover, but when you have to stand up for yourself? You always do it via e-mail if you can. Rarely on the phone, and never in person. When Professor Prasanna starts shouting about whatever’s ticked her off recently, you flinch. You physically flinch as if you thought a five-foot-tall woman in her sixties was going to hurt you. ”

. . . I hadn’t realized I did all that, but it’s true. Kip sees even more than I thought he did.

He continues speaking, his tone gentler. “Geordie Hilton might be a lush, but at least he was always kind. You’re someone who needs kindness, I think. And I don’t know that Jonah Marks is the man to give it to you. ”

What I need from Jonah has nothing to do with kindness. The only cruelty he shows me is the type I desire.

I simply repeat, “It’s not serious. ”

“Fine, fine. ”

Downtown Austin is quieter than usual tonight. Maybe it’s the first chilly evening driving people indoors, to dig through the back of their closets for sweaters and jackets. Or maybe there’s a more exciting place to be just a few blocks away. Whatever it is, Kip and I have this stretch of the street to ourselves, our footsteps echoing slightly from the tall buildings surrounding us. The setting sun paints the mud-colored capitol building a soft russet.

“Hey,” I say softly. “I don’t need you looking out for me—but I still appreciate the thought. ”

“I always think of you, Vivienne. Except when I’m thinking about my new future husband, Ryan. ”

Laughing, I get him to talk more about the many glories of Ryan. Inside, though, I’m deeply and unexpectedly touched. Kip can be a world-class meddler and gossip—but in the end, all he wants is to take care of his friends. To find us a bit of kindness in this world.

Sixteen

The next day, the suspense begins.

I sleep well, knowing Jonah won’t come to my house—but from the moment I get in my car the next morning, every moment is charged.

Will he be waiting in the backseat? In the stairwell of the art department? Or maybe he’ll be standing in the hallway leading to the restroom at my favorite restaurant. Jonah could find me at any time, in any way.

Sometimes I try to figure what he has in mind. If he’s not following me, and not coming to my house, then how will this happen? I can’t imagine what Jonah’s planning.

Of course, that’s the whole point. I won’t know what Jonah’s going to do to me until he does it.

Sometimes my curiosity piques as I’m sitting at my computer keyboard. It would be so easy to search for Carter Hale Jonah Marks Chicago. If I did, yet more chapters of Jonah’s complicated personal history would unfold for me.

Then we wouldn’t be strangers. We promised to stay strangers. So I don’t look.

•   •   •

“Are you sure this dress looks okay?” Carmen says for about the fourth time since we left her place.

“You look great. Red is your color. Come on. ” I take her hand and tug her into the benefit.

The enormous theater has been decorated for the event in the spare-yet-elegant manner of most charity functions: Large plants in every corner, donated by a local nursery. Strands of lights hanging from the ceiling in graceful arcs. Bars in each corner, staffed by the usual grad students in white shirts and black vests. (If I hadn’t won a scholarship, I might be one of them. ) A lectern and microphone wait for various speeches, standing on the stage in front of the red velvet curtains.

We ran late because Carmen was still neck-deep in math when I came to pick her up, so the gala is already in full swing. Geordie must have been waiting for us the entire time, because he immediately waves and heads in our direction, weaving through the elegantly dressed crowd.

Tonight’s cocktail reception benefits the public-interest law center Geordie sometimes volunteers with. Austin residents wear casual clothes almost all the time—but give us a chance to dress up, and we’ll take it. Carmen’s red satin sheath shows off her curves to perfection and fits perfectly with the tone of the party: cocktail dresses for the women, tailored suits for the men.

Me, I’m slightly overdressed. But I come from New Orleans, which means I usually wind up attending a Mardi Gras ball or two in the spring, which means I’m one of the few women who genuinely needs to own a full-length evening gown. This one is simple—emerald-green silk, spaghetti straps, skimming my body to the waist, then widening into a soft, flowing skirt. I adore this dress, and putting it on only twice a year always seems like a waste. Tonight seemed like a great excuse to wear it. However, I’ve already received a few glares from women who seem to think I was trying to show them up. Whatever.